


Being Human

by Desdimonda



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Exploring humanity, F/M, Intimacy, Romance, Sexual Themes, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visenya thought she knew her life; she thought the path that was laid before her was simple, with a single cause, a single purpose. But the day she stepped within New Tristram, into the lives of Cain and Leah, seeking the ‘fallen star’ that brought upon the world chaos, the life she knew was gone. The stranger that was the ‘falling star’ bears a name now; Tyrael. He is - he was - the archangel of Jusitce. But now he walks upon Sanctuary as a mortal. Evil stirs across the world again, it’s ripples trembling through the lives of humanity. With Leah and Tyrael by her side, Visenya takes the steps towards her new life, and begins to question what really matters in life and what it means to be human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thank you, Nephalem.

The stranger remembered his name; Tyrael. He remembered his purpose; to help. He remembered why he fell; because of us. Humanity.

He had spoken little on the journey to Caldeum. Restless fingers had barely left El’druin alone. For hours he had stared, the gentle glow of it’s light never dimmed, but it shone that little bit more when he touched it. Visenya found it hard to look away. She always found beauty in a sword. The way the hilt curved to the wielder’s hand; the way the edge of a blade sang as it met the air; the way it shone, beneath the sun, beneath the moon. But there was something more to El’druin that caused her heart to beat a little faster.

There was something more about him.

‘Almost there!’ called the caravan’s master. ‘Pack up and prepare!’

Visenya started from the sharp, loud words. All the sound that had surrounded them was the gentle breaths of Leah as she slept against Visenya’s shoulder and the occasional words from Tyrael. He hadn’t slept the whole journey, she was sure.

‘You should get some rest when we arrive,’ said Visenya as she slipped on her gauntlets, flexing her fingers as they moulded against the steel. ‘We have much ahead of us.’

‘I shall sleep when it is necessary,’ said Tyrael, sheathing El’druin. ‘The days are not long enough on Sanctuary.’

‘The eternal light of heaven is preferable?’ asked Visenya, buckling her bracer with a sharp tug.

Tyrael chuckled, leaning forward on his elbows, watching the Crusader prepare. Leah stirred to Visenya’s movements, but she sighed, burying her face back into her cloak.

‘Having an eternal day would sometimes be welcome,’ said Tyrael.

‘I like night,’ said Visenya, nudging Leah awake. ‘It’s peaceful. There is beauty to be found at night.’

Tyrael listened, pointing his fingers to a peak as he smiled. His eyes never wavered as she spoke; he never looked away, or to his feet like many often did when they spoke. He held her gaze; he listened to every word. Visenya found herself looking away instead.

‘I suppose it is something I will get used to,’ he said, glancing to Leah. ‘And I must take some tips from Leah. It seems she can sleep anywhere.’

Visenya laughed, nudging Leah off her shoulder again. ‘She has youth on her side.’

‘You are still young, nephalem,’ he said, just as the caravan stopped.

‘Please. Visenya,’ she said, clutching her shield.

‘My apologies, nephalem.’

Visenya tried to hide her smile.

***

‘Can you feel his presence?’ said Tyrael. He walked by Visenya’s side, his eyes wide as he took in the city. Leah hung a few steps behind them, stifling a yawn.

‘I cannot quite tell if it’s the claws of Belial, or the stench of human depravity.’ Visenya rolled her shoulder, wincing at the stretch that pulled her taut muscles; she made a note to bathe tonight.

Tyrael laughed, catching Visenya’s gaze. ‘Ever the optimist.’

‘People are so concerned with an external evil, they forget about the darkness within.’ She pushed past a throng of people, loud and inebriated. The streets were growing narrower, she thought, but as she looked around, they were just busier. It was evening, and the whole city was alive. Visenya stepped closer to Tyrael as their pathway grew smaller; arms brushed together casually. She apologised at first, but he waved her words away and set a hand on her stiff shoulder.

‘If I didn’t already know better, I’d think you were the fallen angel,’ he said with a smile. Gloved fingers squeezed her shoulder; Visenya visibly relaxed, sighing at the release of tension his touch gave.’My apologies - do I hurt you?’ he asked, withdrawing his hand at once.

‘Oh. No. No,’ she said, missing the touch. ‘Quite the opposite. I must have slept on it funny whilst travelling.’

‘Or maybe when you fell on your shield back at Tristram?’ said Leah, pushing in between them.

‘What?’ she said, bristling at her words. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did. Shoulder first, right to the ground. Shield broke your fall, unsuccessfully,’ said Leah with a laugh. ‘Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s go eat.’

‘We do need to gain our strength for tomorrow,’ said Visenya, glancing to Tyrael.

‘Or you know, we could just enjoy a meal for a change, rather than just view it as a necessity.’ She looked between them both as she steered them towards a nearby tavern; throngs of people lingered by the doors, half full tankards in hand, a laugh on their lips. They parted to make way for the three; a whistle lingered behind the girls as they walked past. Visenya cast a glance behind them, flexing her gloved hand; their voices stilled.

‘Remind me to take you with me every night,’ said Leah.

‘I have faith you can cope with creatures like those, Leah. I’ve seen you fight,’ said Visenya as they stepped inside. A thick smell of ale, of sweat, of meat met their senses. Visenya breathed deeply; it was comforting. She travelled alone for months at a time, the only contact the nameless stragglers that walked the same path, the merchants that peddled their wares, or bandits that tried their luck; but luck was never on their side.

Tyrael walked close by her side, letting her take the lead. Leah pointed at a booth in the corner, isolated and quiet and told them both to wait for her there and that she would order.

‘Order what?’ asked Tyrael as Leah approached the bar.

Visenya laughed as she motioned for Tyrael to follow. ‘What most taverns serve; meat, bread, veg and gravy. There is little variety among the common folk; I find it comforting.’

They settled into the booth, Visenya enjoying the soft padding against her back; the leather was ripped and exposed the thick wool beneath. But she didn’t care. She removed her gloves slowly, flexing her fingers as they met their freedom. Tyrael watched her and copied her, slipping off his steel gauntlets, unscathed. Not even a scuff tarnished the metal; the candlelight catching the gold and silver detail etched into the metal. She reached out to pick up the one he had removed, but she held his armoured hand instead.

‘I-’ she began, touching the rivets, the etchings in the metal, so intricate and fine. ‘How are they still so...pristine?’

‘I may no longer be an angel, but I fell with some of my armour. It is not of Sanctuary - it can withstand almost anything,’ he said, watching her long fingers slide across his gauntlet; he wished his hand was bare.

‘Almost?’ she asked, setting his hand back onto the table. Her fingers lingered as she spoke.

‘El’druin could pierce it; and the claws of a prime evil. But not much else,’ he said, watching her pull back her hand.

‘It is beautiful,’ she said.

Tyrael opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. A heavy silence lingered, interrupted with the gentle clink of his gauntlet as he slid it off, setting it by Visenya’s. Hers were littered with deep scars, and scuffs of metal upon metal; her life echoed on the steel, each blow she parried, each steel she blocked.

Leah returned with three jars of ale, and their food soon followed. The girl talked for them both; excitable, unsteady words, accompanied by her gesturing hands. Visenya knew she tried hard; too hard, to push along. It had barely been a week since Cain’s death and she refused to stop, to slow down; to mourn. But she let her talk. Visenya saw the pain in her eyes, she saw the slight waver in her voice when Cain was mentioned, but who was she to decide how Leah could deal with death? Visenya had her way, and Leah another.

As Leah answered a question from Tyrael - if the city was as she had remembered - Visenya wondered if Tyrael had ever dealt with death, with the loss of those he loved, and how he coped. Do angels love, she thought, do they form bonds like we do? Do they feel pain? Visenya stared at the bottom of her glass, a thousand questions in her head, on her lips, desperate to speak. But where was her right to ask such questions? Tyrael walked among mortals, as one, but she wanted to know why.

A haze of tired words followed. Leah yawned, Visenya echoed.

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Leah, stretching as she rose from the booth, elongating her arms to a peak.

Visenya stood. ‘Let me walk you back - there are many lecherous eyes and hands tonight,’ she said, slipping back on her gauntlets. ‘Will you return with us, Tyrael?’

‘Soon. I’ll stay a while; observe the city. Sleep eludes me still sometimes. I shall put myself to use.’

Visenya simply nodded. She did not smile; she found it hard to be false before him. ‘You need sleep, Tyrael. Do not fight it,’ she said, buckling her gauntlet.

‘I know. Thank you, nephalem.’

‘Please - Visenya,’ she said, catching his gaze.

‘Goodnight,’ he paused, glancing to his hand, remembering her touch. ‘Visenya.’


	2. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya struggles with her new path and doesn't know where to turn. 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue/minor events have been changed to fit with the story, but the lore stays the same.

Visenya stretched, enjoying the pull of her muscles as she sat at the edge of her bed. Dawn had passed; she had slept well, longer than she had wished. Chastising herself, she began to dress, buckling her gambeson ready for her armour. A prickle of sweat already lingered on her skin, and she hadn’t even begun the day; she longed for the cool air of the coast, the gentle lull of the sea, the salt spray on her fair skin. She chastised herself again; there was a time for longing, for memory, for wishing for what you did not have. That time was not now. Now she had to be strong, because before her sat the fate of Sanctuary.

She thought her path was set. She thought her steps were guided, never to waver. Visenya leaned forward on her elbows, running fingers through her hair. She was tired, exhausted. A weary sigh passed her lips as she stared at the canvas that was her floor. They had insisted she had a tent of her own. She fought with Cormac and Leah; their stubborn voices echoed in her head. ‘You’re our leader - the Nephalem - you deserve the space,’ drawled Cormac, his thick set accent elongated his words. ‘Eirena is happy to share with me,’ said Leah, her big bright eyes gleaming as though she were doing Visenya a favour.

She could not fault the girl. Visenya was used to a solitary life. She had spent the last ten years alone, travelling the world with one purpose; her crusade. She had been alone; not lonely. Her crusade had been her comfort, it had been her friend, the guiding light of her life and what stirred the fire inside. But now, she felt like she had lost her way. The crusade had stepped aside, making way for her status as the Nephalem, and a part of her was happy.

She stood, stretched toward the peak of her tent and headed outside. Alcarnus was their destination today, and the camp were already wide awake. Lyndon nodded as she walked by. He was re-stringing his bow, slipping the thin hairs around the lip in the wood. Eirena was at his side, laughing with Leah as the girl fastened her satchel. Cormac polished his shield; hers sat gleaming by his side. She hadn’t remembered asking him to help. A chorus of morning, of hello, even a salute followed her steps. It made her walk faster.

The peak of the tower was empty. Quietly, she slipped passed the morning throng of people and ascended the steps two at a time. She padded across the stone until she met the edge. Jutting stone, the edges broken with age rose to her chest. She leant forward, draping her arms over the ledge, enjoying the whip of the breeze against her skin. It was still warm, but welcome.

Below, the city bustled. People skipped through the streets, lined with merchants, with entertainers, with women peddling not just their wares, but themselves. It’s barely noon, she thought, glancing at a woman wearing just a bustier and sheer skirt.

‘I sense a discomfort in you.’

Visenya started, touching her breast to still her heart. She did not scare; she did not frighten. What is wrong with me, she cursed herself, silently. ‘Hello still works,’ she said, turning back to face the city.

‘My apologies,’ said Tyrael, joining her side. ‘I did not mean to disturb you.’

She gave him a brief smile. ‘There is much that disturbs me these days - but not you.’

‘What troubles you?’ he pressed, turning to face her.

Visenya pushed back her messy braid as she tried to voice an answer. She knew the discomfort in her heart, the trouble that kept her awake; but what were the right words? They lingered on her lips, silent, unspoken. ‘I-’ she started, but swore, turning away from Tyrael. ‘My personal struggles are not important, Tyrael. Not at least until all of this is over.’ She tried to speak with conviction, with the voice of a Crusader; but her words were weary.

He touched her shoulder, like he had last night. ‘Do not push aside the woman just because the warrior is needed; one does not exist without the other.’

Visenya stared at his hand. ‘Such wisdom. I thought you were the angel of justice,’ she said, turning back to stare at the city.

Tyrael chuckled. ‘I don’t pretend to know how you feel, Visenya, but I am here for you, if you ever want to talk, or simply need me to listen.’

She tapped her fingers against the stone. ‘Why?’ she said at last.

‘Why?’ asked Tyrael, his brows tight with confusion. ‘Isn’t that what friends do?’ His hand slid off her shoulder, fingertips glancing across her arm.

‘Friends. Aren’t I just a pawn in this, your battle?’ she said, pushing herself off the wall.

‘We all have sacrifices to make for reasons far beyond ourselves,’ he said,touching the hilt of El’druin.

‘What would you know of sacrifice?’ she said with a bitter tongue.

Tyrael stayed quiet for a while. The voices below, of her comrades, of their camp, carried up with the breeze in an eerie accompaniment to their breathless silence. Visenya turned to leave, but the other halted her with a touch; warm fingers clutched her own.

 

> _Imperius stepped back, the tips of his red wings flitting up and down, in echo of a mortal’s erratic heart. ‘You put humanity before your brethren? Our laws forbid us to interfere with humanity. Yet you have done so, brazenly. You bring shame to me, to us; to yourself.’_
> 
> _‘The only thing I am guilty of, is bringing justice to this world.,’ said Tyrael._
> 
> _The slew of heavens light danced between the angels as they met, steel on steel. Their wings whipped out, steadying their armoured bodies, gripping the gleaming pillars of heaven as they fought. A twang of metal sang through the air, a brittle note compared to the songs of heaven. They parted, with force. Tyrael stood, catching Imperius’s fallen weapon, his wings wild._
> 
> _‘You cannot judge me. I am justice itself!’_
> 
> _Imperius stepped forward, mocking the tip of the blade._
> 
> _‘We were meant for more than this,’ continued Tyrael. ‘To protect the innocent - to protect humanity.’_
> 
> _Imperius took another step closer; Tyrael halted him as he pushed forward the blade and continued to speak. ‘But if our precious laws bind you all to inaction…. then I will no longer stand as your brother.’_
> 
> _Tyrael sank the blade into the floor, shattering the crystal path of heaven. Tyrael clutched his shoulders with armoured hands as his wings slid from his back, falling to heavens floor, the light extinguishing as he dropped to his knees. Heaven parted beneath him, the edges turning liquid, to molten light as he fell._
> 
>  

Tyrael let go of her hand; Visenya staggered, catching the ledge of the tower with a shaking hand.

‘You chose to become one of us,’ she breathed, staring at the angel; at the man.

‘Humanity needed me, so I fell…willingly.’ He stepped closer to Visenya, taking back her hand. She expected another vision; she breathed deeply, she breathed sharp, but it never came. ‘Humanity needs us. If it means you need to take that step you didn’t see, or didn’t want to take - then that is how it must be. I chose to become mortal - and I would do it again.’

‘Forgive me,’ she breathed, feeling her words stick in her throat.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer, it’s time to leave.’

‘You’re not coming?’ she asked.

‘I’m staying with Leah. She requested my help,’ he said, letting their hold linger.

‘Of course.,’ she said, stepping away from him. ‘Stay safe. And again, forgive me. I was out of line.’

‘Your apology is not necessary, Visenya. You never asked for this - but you take it in your stride. You give me hope we can win this.’

She paused at the top of the steps, glancing back to Tyrael. She pushed aside her braid. ‘I was going to say the same to you.’

And she left.


	3. Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya and Lyndon journey to Alcarnus, seeking the witch Maghda and Leah finds an unexpected ally within Caldeum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very game plot centric chapter. I wanted to add it in to show some of Visenya's character and how important Leah has become to her. And writing fight scenes is always fun.   
> If you didn't already realise, this is a slow burner.

‘I feel like I need another bath,’ sighed Lyndon, wiping the back of his sleeve across his forehead.

Visenya stalked around the corner, kicking aside a dead body. A wet string of blood still trailed from the dead cultists wound; the heat turning the blood thick and heavy quicker than usual. ‘You bathe? I couldn’t tell,’ said Visenya as she stepped over a demon; it’s arm lay ten feet to the side; the remains of it’s head stained her shield.

‘Oh ha, ha. Just because you’re a fancy Nephalem now doesn’t mean you can break my heart with your insults,’ said Lyndon with a weary sigh. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, readying himself for battle.

‘You have a heart to break?’ jested Visenya, glancing back to Lyndon with a smile. A splash of blood coloured her face and stained the tips of her hair.

‘Ouch,’ said Lyndon, touching his chest, arrow in hand. ‘You hurt me more than these bastards ever did.’

Visenya laughed as they continued through the quiet streets of Alcarnus, surrounded by a continual swathe of dust and sand. Footsteps littered the sandy ground, erratic, some trailed blood, other stopped only to be surrounded by a pool of blood. Birds had begun to pick at the dead flesh that was quickly turning rotten and sour from the unforgiving sun. Visenya stepped on a stray finger, the squelch of flesh soon faded to the crack of bone.

‘I hate to admit it, but I am glad to have you around, Lyndon. If nothing, your gentle comedy brightens the day.’ They continued down the street, growing narrower as they descended down the path.

‘There’s little around here that’s bright,’ he said, following the Nephalem.

‘The sun is, at least,’ she said, holding her shield up in-front. A crackle of magic met her ears; it sent the hairs on her arms to a peak. ‘Walk soft,’ she said as they approached the end of the hill.

Lyndon was at her heels, bow poised, ready for what was to meet them. A flash of blue hit Viesnya’s shield; Lyndon dodged to the side and loosed an arrow, and another, and two more. A slew of cultists met their approach - Maghda’s.

Visenya pushed forward, and twirled her flail, the sharp, thick edges of it met the head of a wizard and he fell, lifeless to her feet. She kicked him aside, raising her shield just in time to reflect a jolt of magic. It gripped her shield, turning the metal ice cold; it strained on her arm, almost pulling it out of her shoulder and to the ground, but she resisted, bending a knee, letting the weight of it fall back onto her armoured body. Tendrils of cold snaked around the shield, clutching at her limbs. She whispered a word beneath her breath, brought up her shield and slammed the tip, hard, into the sandy ground.

The cold snapped back and curled back into the cultists arms as a wave of light emanated from her shield, blinding the pack that stood before her.

‘Lyndon!’ she cried, ‘Do your worst!’

‘I always do!’ he called back at her as a flurry of arrows pelted the dazed wizards.

Visenya took the opening and charged forward, flail high at her side. She knocked down two with her shield, already peppered with Lyndon’s arrows. She hit one, two, three, with her flail, their spatterings of blood like warm rain on her face.

A few cultists at the back scattered, tripping over their feet in their haste to retreat back to their mistress. Visenya followed their escape, her eyes slanted by the sun. But she saw their destination; she saw the woman that was their target. Maghda. Hovering above the ground, suspended in a swathe of her magic, she extended out an arm, sneering as she sent a bolt of purple light towards Visenya. She tried to dodge, but the falling body of a cultist blocked her path. Where she tried to avoid the dagger of magic that hurled towards her, it took all she had to brace herself for it’s power. Her shield shook, the reverbations tearing through to her bones. A lick of purple magic passed over the edge of her shield and caught her cheek, slicing a perfect line from the edge of her mouth to her eye.

‘Shit!’ she hissed as the wound wept blood, lines of red streaking her face, and dripping down to the sand at her feet.

‘Vis!’ cried Lyndon from her left. He was pelting Maghda with arrows and halting the retreats of the cowardly cultists.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, pushing forward. She seethed, clenching her teeth as she leaped over the dead. Her bones ached, they trembled from the force of Maghda’s power, and her face wept with blood. But still, she did not falter. Her revenge stood before her; and she was going to take it.

‘Has Tyrael let you come out to play?’ mocked Maghda, raising her arms as she prepared another spell. She faltered, as one of Lyndon’s arrows caught her wrist.

‘Choose your words wisely, Maghda. They’re going to be your last,’ said Visenya as she charged forward, shield dipped enough to catch Magha with the tip.

The witch staggered, cursing the Nephalem’s name. But Visenya didn’t stop. She cast down her flail, tearing at the witch’s limbs, stalling her attempts to cast. Lyndon provided the support she needed, and little by little they wore her down.

Cultists rose at her side to assist their mistress, but Visenya cast a wave of holy light from her shield, tendrils erupting from the ground, clutching at the cultists dying bodies.

‘While you are here, meddling, your little precious Leah is the hands of my master,’ she mocked, her words catching in her throat. She fell to the ground, no longer suspended in the air; her magic was weakening.

What? thought Visenya, as she charged at the weakened Maghda. Leah. Heavens, Leah. Tyrael, please, take care of her, she prayed.

‘Your vengeance will break you, Nephalem. It will be your undoing,’ croaked Maghda as she took Visenya’s flail to her chest. There was no-one else alive but the three.

Visenya threw aside her flail and dropped her shield. A puff of dust and sand clouded around her feet as she walked towards the dying witch. Her armour was tinged with blood - some of it her own - and her face seared in pain.

But she had her vengeance for Cain, and for Leah’s grieving heart.

‘This,’ she said as she pulled out a dagger from her boot, ‘is for Cain.’ She straddled the dying witch, pinned down her arm and slashed the dagger across her throat once, ‘this is for Leah,’ twice, ‘and this is for me,’ thrice.

The only noise that hung in the air was the gurgling of blood as Maghda died.

***

Her shield felt heavy, her steps weak, her arms like paper. Lyndon dragged his feet behind her as they approached the gates of Caldeum. Visenya wiped her hand across her face, wincing at the pain as she disturbed her wound, breaking it open again.

‘It’s not healing as it should,’ she sighed, pulling a red vial from her pouch; her last. She necked the bitter liquid and cast aside the empty jar, shards of glass splintering at her feet.

‘Just keep it together. We have to find-’

‘You don’t think I know that?’ she interrupted, pushing aside the gate guards that looked upon the two, warily. ‘Move!’ she shouted, reaching for the hilt of her flail.

The guard stuttered and stepped out of her way. As she stepped inside the city, all looked as normal, just as it had this morn. People walked by, hands full of goods, of wares to sell, of wares they have bought. The girl with the sheer skirt had moved corner, her smile a bit brighter than this morn.

‘Mam, you’re bleeding,’ said a concerned passerby, raising his brows as she pushed past him without care.

‘I know,’ she said, loud enough just for her.

There was no unrest. The city moved on, ticking over, merchants filling the air with their cries, children laughing as they ran in the streets.

‘Where is she?’ said Visenya, looking around the city, lost.

‘We should head to camp - maybe Tyrael-’

‘Visenya!’

She stopped, turned on her heel as she heard the familiar, most welcome voice.

‘Tyrael - she - she said they look Leah,’ she said at once, her words a stutter on her tongue as he caught up to her. The frustration that etched lines on his brow, the anger that propelled his steps at the capture of Leah fell away for a moment as he looked upon the Nephalem, and to the red, gaping wound that spread from her eye to her mouth.

‘Visenya - you’re hurt,’ he said, reaching out an armoured hand to her face.

‘It’s nothing. It’s fine. Just - we need to find Leah,’ she pressed, feeling the touch of his hand slip away from her face. She wanted to take his hand, to keep his touch against her skin - not now, she chastised, pushing away the thought.

‘You are right. Come.’ Tyrael turned and headed to the palace, pushing past the city’s throng of people, glancing behind his shoulder every so often. Visenya was sure he had smiled.

‘What does he want with her?’ she asked as she kept to Tyarel’s heel.

‘To distract us. To keep us busy while he digs his claws deeper within the city.’

He spoke with strength, with purpose, with a fire that she hadn’t seen in so long. It was the fire she felt inside when she first took upon her crusade; when she stepped into New Tristram, blind to what lay before her. It was what she felt, when-

‘Did you get to choose how you looked when you fell?’ asked Lyndon.

‘I - did I what?’ replied Tyrael, faltering a step.

‘Lyndon!’ chastised Visenya, casting him a glare. ‘Now is not the time.’

‘I thought you brought me along for, what was it, my ‘gentle comedy’,’ he said, raising a brow.

‘Zakarum’s breath,’ she said, quickening her steps as they neared the palace gates.

Tyrael watched as she strode past him, her wound still weeping lines of blood. He almost reached out to her, to tell her to stop, just for a moment. Almost. She walked with purpose; she walked for Leah.

‘I was only asking as I would have chosen quite the er, younger physique and stature if I were you, Tyrael,’ said Lyndon with a shrug.

‘I did not have the choice - I fell, encompassing the mortal body of my angelic form. And that so happens to be this,’ he said, with a level voice, looking between the crusader and scoundrel.

‘You’ve lived a long time, right?’ he asked.

‘Lyndon!’ said Viesnya loudly, turning around to face him as she curled her fingers to a fist.

‘Alright, alright!’ he said, lifting his hands.

Visenya didn’t grant him a reply and stormed through the palace gates. She paused, unnerved by the silence and empty space that met them. There were no guards to greet their assault, no resistance to their steps.

‘Well, this is clearly a trap,’ said Lyndon as he pulled an arrow from his quiver.

Visenya gripped her flail, the chain clinking against her armour the only sound. It echoed off the walls, filling the empty palace with her presence. She turned to Tyrael. ‘Ready?’ she asked, watching him unsheathe El’druin.

‘Always,’ he said, letting her take the lead.

Ascending the steps, she rammed open the central palace doors with her shield, a biting crack pierced the air.

‘And what is the reason for such an entrance?’ called the Emperor from atop his seat. A circle of guards surrounded them.

‘I think you know,’ said Visenya, taking a step closer. A guard blocked her path.

‘What right do you have, to walk into my home after committing such atrocities in Alcarnus?’ accused the Emperor, his small voice straining as he tried to carry the strength of his name and title.

Visenya seethed at the accusation, shifting her flail, ready to strike. ‘You accuse us of slaughter? Alcarnus was the work of Maghda and her master, Belial!’

‘Oh really?’ said the Emperor, waving an arm to the side. A door opened and a circle of guards entered, surrounding a very familiar face. ‘Then why did I find one of your spies lurking like a rat in my sewers?’

‘Leah!’ cried Visenya, starting towards the girl; Tyrael caught her arm, halting her retreat.

‘Let. Me. Go,’ hissed Leah, struggling against her binds.

The Emperor sighed, crossing his arms before his chest. ‘I detest violence….but guards - deal with this,’ he said before turning his back and stalking away.

‘Come back you craven!’ called Visenya, raising her shield as she watched the Emperor walk away. She felt Tyrael’s grip tighten.

‘Visenya! Leave him,’ said Tyrael, just as the guards descended upon the three.

‘What a busy day,’ said Lyndon as he loosed an arrow at an approaching guard. But as the arrow sunk into his chest, the guard and his fellows changed, transformed into serpent creatures - into servants of Belial.

‘Shit,’ swore Visenya, bracing her shield.

‘I concur,’ said Lyndon as he stepped aside and began to pelt an array of arrows into the serpent creatures.

Visenya’s shield enveloped the blow of the closest creature; but she was too fast. Her flail whipped around and sank into the head of the creature, and it fell to her feet, twitching. She slammed her shield into the ground and the two before her stalled, blinded by the light that sang from her shield.

She glanced to her side, catching Tyrael as he swung El’druin through a serpent’s body, slicing it clean it two. She watched as he turned with grace, the weight of El’druin like a feather in his hands, like a sheath of glass, precise and pure.

Visenya staggered; one of the creatures had caught her off guard.

Pull it together, Visenya.

Her flail met the serpent’s side, sending a spray of black blood across the air. There was only one left now, and it was Tyrael’s. He cast El’druin, tip first up through the creature’s neck, biting away it’s life. A river of blood cascaded down the sword, but it never touched the blade; it hovered, glided across the sword, dappling Tyrael’s skin and armour black.

Leah ran to her side. ‘I knew you’d come for me,’ she said, clutching Visenya’s arm. ‘But come on, we should hurry incase more guards show.’

‘Are you alright?’ asked Visenya.

‘Yes. I’m fine, but my mother-’

‘Your mother?’ interrupted Visenya, glancing to Tyrael. He sheathed El’druin, wiping a splash of black blood off his face.

‘You found Adria?’ asked Tyrael, joining Visenya’s side.

‘I’m not going to ask how you know my mother’s name, but yes,’ said Leah, turning from the three and breaking into a run. ‘She’s in the sewers,’ she called back, not breaking her stride.

***

‘’Leah! By Zakarum - wait!’ Visenya followed the erratic steps of Leah as she ran through the sewers. Tyrael and Lyndon were at her heels. A haze of white lingered up ahead, accompanied by the crackle of a voice; a voice that wasn’t human.

‘What is the purpose of the black soulstone?’ it called out to a woman, suspended in the air before it’s hand.

‘Something your master should fear,’ she replied.

‘Mother!’ cried Leah as she charged forward, neglecting the cries of Visenya and Tyrael to wait.

Visenya cast aside her shield as she ran the last of her steps, flail in hand. The hisses of the serpents echoed off the walls of the sewers as they bypassed Leah and slithered towards the three, armed and ready.

Lyndon supported shieldless Visenya as she swung her flail, the tip of it’s head catching the filthy water, sending a spray of cloudy water over her and Tyrael.

El’druin sang as he swung it through the body of the serpent that had spoke; it’s shining edge cut the scales like wet paper, seeped in their inky bloody. But still, the blade shone bright, untouched by the blood of its dead. Visenya stepped back, pressing herself against Tyrael as they looked around for the last of their enemies; Lyndon got the last kill, with an arrow that sank between the four red, slit eyes of a serpent.

‘You alright?’ she asked Tyrael, sheathing her flail.

‘Yes,’ he said, breathless. ‘I think. It is strange having lungs.’

Visenya laughed, wiping her hand across her forehead. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said, glancing to Leah as she helped her mother to her feet. ‘I’m fine too by the way,’ she said as she stepped away.

‘I didn’t need to ask,’ said Tyrael, sheathing El’druin.

‘It’s always welcome,’ she said, not looking back; she heard his gentle laugh. She reached Leah and her mother, who were embracing. The girl clutched to her mother, her knuckles turning white. She was smiling, with tightly shut eyes.

‘Here is not the place for talk,’ said Visenya carefully, giving the girl the moment she needed.

‘I know,’ said Leah quietly, letting go of her mother.

‘Thank you, for saving me and my daughter,’ said Adria as she glanced to Visenya , to Lyndon and lingered on Tyrael.

‘She means a lot to me,’ said Visenya as she picked her shield from the floor.

‘And to me,’ said Adria, waving her free handed, tinged with black blood as she conjured forth a portal.

Visenya didn’t reply as she followed them back to camp.


	4. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They return to camp, after their victorious defeat of Magdha and her coven, and the rescue of Leah. Visenya, wounded in battle, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to be alone has a visitor, wishing to help tend to her wound.

The sun was setting, the last fingers of it’s light lingered in the sky, leaving them with a haze of orange. Visenya set down her shield by Cormac’s, noting the hard dent at the top and the slew of black blood that tainted the metal. Eirena ran past her, calling to Leah. Visenya watched the girls embrace, she saw Lyndon take Cormac’s hand as the templar greeted his return. Adria hovered by her daughter, observing the camp with her small eyes, but as Tyrael approached, she caught his arm, pulling him into conversation.

Visenya touched her face and winced; the wound still wept, and now that the battles were over, now that the adrenaline had passed, it ached. Setting down her flail by her shield she walked to her tent, desperate to remove her armour and bathe. No-one stopped her; they were busy with their new visitor, or with Leah, excited at her safe return. She could not fault them; the girl had become important to everyone, especially since the death of Cain. Visenya had tried to keep a distance, to give the girl the space she needed. And she supposed since Adria’s return, there was little space for a second maternal figure.

A mother, thought Visenya. She laughed at herself as she unclipped her mantle, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. Usually she was so careful with her armour, taking it off piece by piece, setting it carefully on the floor, a table, by her bed. Not tonight. Her armour felt like an unwanted weight; it felt uncomfortable. The last time she had felt like this in her armour was the night her mentor had died. It had barely saved Visenya, but not enough for her mentor. As tradition, the young apprentice crusader would take the name of their mentor on their passing, but Visenya had never felt she had the honour of taking her name. The last word her mentor had said was Visenya. She kept her name. In a way, that was her honour.

She rolled her head, feeling the pleasant click in her neck as she unbuckled her breastplate. It was spotted with blood - the enemies and her own. It met the floor with a clink. The leather tabard she wore covered the metal in a mess; but she didn’t care. Her tunic stuck to her skin, damp with sweat. She glanced to her empty tub, lamenting the lack of water. It would mean a trip outside to the well and a favour from Eirena to warm the water. She paused, debating the trip, weighing the positive, thinking of the negative. But as she started to get ready, her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle drawl.

‘Visenya?’ said Tyrael, pushing open the door of her tent. He hovered, awaiting her acceptance.

‘Tyrael,’ she said, breathless, her heart missing a beat. ‘Sorry. I was lost in thought.’

‘Your wound,’ he said, walking towards her with a brisk step. He led her to the edge of her bed, setting her down gently. She made to say no, but as his hand touched hers, her resistance fell away.

Tyrael joined her side, but quickly stood up and started to walk around her tent, searching. ‘Do you have any clean muslin? Water?’

‘I-,’ she began, as he paused, turning to face her. ‘There’s muslin by my pillow, but water, you’ll need to go to the well and-’

‘Get Eirena,’ he said with a smile. He returned to her side, slid off his over tunic and unclipped El’druin. He set it by her trunk, turned and left.

Visenya stared at the blade, her lips parted in surprise. She had never seen him leave his sword alone; it had never parted his side since he had reclaimed it and his memories. It had fallen with him from the heavens, a reminder of what he had sacrificed, of the life he had left behind. Her hand twitched, eager to touch the hilt, to glance across the metal of heaven. But she stopped herself, pulling back her hand.

He returned soon after, carrying a bowl of hot water, a needle and thread and a bottle of mead.

Visenya smiled as he approached, passing him her muslin cloths. ‘You don’t have to do this, Tyrael,’ she said as he sat at her side, pushing away his tunic.

‘I want to. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me,’ he said, tucking a leg under his other.

‘Oh you value yourself quite highly, do you not?’ she jested.

Tyrael laughed as he wet the muslin. He wore little of his armour, and his brown, torn clothes stuck his skin, dappled in blood. A read streak stained the front of his tunic and Visenya pushed back his hand and touched his stomach near the stain of blood.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

‘It can wait.’ He waved away her concern, but she persisted. She held his hand, droplets of water dripping past her wrist to the floor.

‘Stop putting me first all the time,’ she said gently, but as the words passed her lips, she wanted to take them back.

Tyrael looked to the floor, watching the water splash on their toes; they touched. ‘You are our hope, Visenya.’ He slid his hand from her grip and wet the muslin again. ‘I have lived a long time. I have borne many wounds - I can last a little longer,’ he said with a smile. ‘May I?’ he asked, his hand hovering by her wound.

Visenya nodded. He touched the wound with the muslin, hot against her skin. She closed her eyes and curled a fist; she would not cry out. ‘How long?’

‘Have I lived?’ he said. His voice was as gentle as his touch.

Visenya relaxed a little, keeping her eyes closed as he tended the wound. Her fingers sought what she thought was the bed, but fingers clutched his leg, her nails catching the rough linen of his breeches. ‘Yeah. Lived.’ She pulled away, fingers sliding across his thigh. ‘Thousands? More?’

He laughed. ‘More.’

‘I-’ began Visenya, but she paused, swearing in pain. Tyrael held her shoulder. ‘I cannot even fathom how…I just… millenias old. Do you even remember all your life?’

Tyrael nodded. ‘There is little I forget. Immortality gives one a lot of time to think.’ He pulled the muslin off her face and set it on the floor. ‘And a lot of time to remember.’

She opened her eyes, watching him pick up the bone needle and thread. ‘That bad? It needs stitches?’

‘That bad,’ repeated Tyrael. He picked up the bottle of mead and uncorked it with his teeth. ‘That is what this is for.’

‘To drink?’ she asked.

‘Well…yes?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Isn’t that what mortals do with this…drink? To numb the pain?’

Visenya smirked and took a swig, enjoying the sweet tang against her throat. ‘Well, that isn’t wrong.’

‘I’m sensing I’m missing something,’ he said, pulling the linen thread through the needles eye.

‘We use it for physical pain, emotional pain,’ she paused, taking another swig. ‘We drink to forget.’

‘Why would anyone want to forget?’ he asked, holding the needle close to her face.

Visenya took a long, steadying breath as he poised his hands, ready to sew. ‘Is there really nothing in your life you regret? That you wish you hadn’t done?’

Tyrael pushed the needle through the top of the wound and began to slowly pull the thread through her skin. Visenya swore, clutched his leg and took another swig.

‘There are many things I regret - but I would never want to forget them.’

‘Why?’ she asked, simply.

‘Because I want to learn from them,’ he said, sliding the needle through her skin again. ‘And that everything wrong I have done has made me into who I am today.’

‘You’re just… it’s times like these that remind me what you are,’ she said, licking her alcohol stained lips.

‘I gave up what I am,’ he reminded her, pressing her cheek gently as he continued to sew.

‘But - thousands - millions of years cannot be undone,’ she said.

‘But they can be left behind for something new,’ he paused, catching her gaze. ‘I fell as a mortal. I fell into a new life that I now live.’ He held the needle still, it hovered by her cheek.

Visenya tried to speak; but she just mouthed words, tasting the mead on her tongue. She decided to take another swig.

‘Save some for me,’ he said, pushing the needle through again.

‘Have you ever had alcohol before?’ she asked. His hands smelled of leather, of salt, of blood, of sweat and metal. She breathed deeply.

‘Tonight would be a first. And if you want another drink, do it now. I need you to keep your mouth still.’

She passed the bottle to Tyrael, giving him a half smile.

‘Maybe after I’ve finished sewing,’ he said.

Visenya closed her eyes, leaning into his hand that supported her head as the other sewed. ‘It’s like you’ve done this before,’ she said.

‘Even if I have been in the high heavens for almost all of my life, I’ve learned some things about mortals,’ he said against her cheek. His breath was warm, his lips parted as he concentrated. Fingers grazed her cheek, pressing the skin taut as he pulled the last thread through. Visenya swallowed, acutely aware of her unsteady breaths. She watched as he cut the thread with his teeth. Her hand, still clutching his leg, twitched, as his lips grazed her cheek.

‘Done,’ he said, pulling back from her face. She almost stopped him.

Visenya touched the stitched wound and smiled. ‘Does it look terrible?’

‘There is little about you that could look terrible, Visenya,’ he said, stepping away from the bed, muslin and bowl in hand.

‘Wait - your - your wound,’ she said. Her words faltered, slightly slurred from the mead.

Tyrael set the bowl back down and took a clean muslin, handing it to her. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll be alright,’ he said. But still, he sat back at her side and took the half full bottle of mead.

‘I… your shirt,’ she said, wetting the cloth.

He pulled up the brown, ragged linen, exposing the slice on his stomach. He held it up, tucking the edge beneath his arm. ‘Will that do?’

Visenya watched him; awkward hands fumbled, and he stared at the floor, unwilling to look her in the eye. His posture was rigid; tense. She did not press why, because as she pressed cloth to wound, he glanced away, trying to hide the discomfort on his face with a swig of mead, unsuccessfully.

He coughed, loudly, holding the bottle to the side as the liquid bit as his throat. ‘What is this?’ he asked. Visenya couldn’t help but laugh.

‘I never said it tasted good.’

She dabbed at the wound. It sat just above his belt, and cut into the skin of his taut, but broad stomach. The candlelight was dim, and his arms cast shadows, but there were lines, etched all across his skin. Scars. Some thin, some not. Some deep, long, and rough. She touched one at his side, ragged, like the memory of a serrated blade. There were questions she wanted to ask, but she had no right.

He took another drink of the mead, letting out a displeased sound. ‘I’d much rather remember if this is how you mortals forget.’

Visenya smirked. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ She cleaned the last part of his wound and set aside the muslin. ‘Stay still.’ She rose from her bed and searched through her pack, lying open on the floor. She returned a moment later with a swatch of cloth and bandage in hand. ‘To keep it covered and clean,’ she said in reply to his curious glance.

‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said, pulling down his tunic. Visenya pulled it back up.

‘It’s enough to get infected, turn septic and kill you.’

Tyrael took another drink.

Careful hands set the swatch over the wound. ‘Hold this,’ she ordered, pushing back a yawn. Tyrael obeyed. ‘You’ll want to change it in the morning and evening,’ she said slowly, her words elongating with exhaustion. As she wound the bandage around his stomach, she took her time, steady, cool fingers glancing across his skin, littered with scars.

He was so warm beneath her touch; more so than any other human she had met. It radiated off his skin, pleasant, comforting. She tucked the end under the bandage at the side, securing it in place. She sat back, but her hands lingered.

‘Done,’ she said.

‘As am I with this mead,’ he said, setting down the bottle.

Visenya blinked, her eyes unfocused as she felt the pull of sleep. ‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling down his tunic. ‘It’s just… strange to have people around me again, after so long alone.’

‘I hope our company isn’t intrusive?’ he asked, watching her heavy eyelids drop.

‘Oh no. No,’ she said, stifling a yawn with her hand. ‘It is, in-fact, most welcome.’

Tyrael squeezed her shoulder; she leant her head against his hand, closing her eyes, her blonde hair falling across his arm. ‘Most welcome,’ she said quietly.

‘You should sleep,’ he said, running a hand through her tangled hair, easing out a knot.

‘I’m fine,’ she protested, but as he played with her hair, she felt herself fall back onto the bed, her fingers lingering on his arm.

Tyrael made to leave, but she tightened her hold. ‘Stay…until - until I fall asleep,’ she drawled. ‘Please.’

He watched her as she nestled into her pillow, blonde hair splaying around her head like a halo. He should have replied, reassured her that he would stay, but her hand still lingered on his arm; he hoped it was enough. He pulled his cloak from by El’druin and spread it out across her body, tucking it around her neck, and making sure it covered her bare feet. He stayed still, for how long he didn’t know; he didn’t care.

He watched her body rise and fall with each steady breath; he watched the way her lips moved as she slept; how she pulled her knees to her chest, tightly. At last, her hand slipped off his arm, limp with sleep.

Tyrael leaned close and placed a kiss on her forehead, pushing a lock of hair from her wound. He stood and took El’druin, it’s light casting a glow upon Visenya as he left.


	5. Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adria tells them of the black Soulstone and the group devise a plan, much to Tyrael's unease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying not to be too heavy handed with the actual game plot in my fic, but using it as small opportunities for moments between the two. This is very much a character and relationship driven story, and I hope you enjoy it. :)

The sun was obscured today, but the heat remained. Visenya sat on the wall of the watch tower, accompanied by Adria, Tyrael and Lyndon. The three talked - or Adria talked and the others listened. Their topic was Zoltun Kulle. From what Visenya could discern, he was one of the Horadrim, a betrayer, consumed with madness, who had constructed a Soulstone, capable of storing the souls of the Prime Evils.

Visenya yawned, touching her pounding temples; she was exhausted. Her slumber was troubled last night despite swiftly falling asleep, Tyrael at her side. She still wore his cloak, draped casually across her shoulders, shielding them from the unforgiving sun. Even though it hit behind a sheath of cloud, it still burned her skin. She scratched her nose, red from the sun and winced in pain.

Visenya pulled his cloak around her bare arms and recrossed her legs, watching, trying to listen to the three.

‘You - his - his what?’ said Lyndon, pausing his incessant pacing.

‘His head,’ repeated Adria, her fingers that gripped her staff turning white.

Visenya rubbed her eyes, feeling weary from their words, from their arguments. ‘So, let me get this right,’ she said, interrupting the three. ‘We take his head - that talks - with us to where the vials of his blood are kept then reform his body and he gives us the Soulstone?’

‘Correct,’ said Adria, simply.

‘Right,’ said Visenya, running her hand through messy hair. She watched Tyrael shake his head, his hand hovering by the hilt of El’druin, fingers twitching to grip the sword. Through fear, through anger, she couldn’t tell.

‘Well, at least this job isn’t dull,’ said Lyndon, folding his arms as he leant against a pillar.

‘I do not trust him,’ said Tyrael, clenching his fist that lingered by El’druin.

‘Or is it me you do not trust, Tyrael?’ asked Adria.

Lyndon smirked. Visenya stepped off the ledge. Tyrael turned away from the witch and leaned forward on the ledge, hands splayed across the stone. He stared down at the city, crowded, oblivious to the tendrils of hell that weaved through their home. ‘Your timing is highly convenient, Adria,’ said Tyrael, still staring at the city below.

‘Your age has made you cynical. We mortals do not have that luxury to wallow in thousands of years of mistakes,’ said Adria, moving her staff to her other hand.

‘Only eighty or so years of mistakes instead,’ said Lyndon, chuckling at himself.

Visenya joined Tyrael’s side, setting a hand on his arm. He relaxed beneath her touch, but the worry did not leave his face. ‘You knew Zoltun?’ she asked Tyrael, sliding her fingers across his gauntlet, feelings the intricate grooves etched into the metal.

‘He was part of my Horadrim. A powerful wizard - inquisitive, obsessive. I never knew he actually created the black Soulstone,’ he said, watching Visenya’s hand. He stretched his little finger, hooking her thumb, pausing her restless hand.

‘Are you questioning my knowledge now?’ asked Adria.

Tyrael closed his eyes. ‘No. I just dislike placing our faith and fate in the hands of a betrayer. A dead one at that.’

‘Nephalem?’ said Adria.

Visenya started, slipping her hand free from Tyrael’s hold. ‘What? Do you want my permission for this? It seems we have no choice.’

Adria smiled, pushing back her hood. ‘We don’t. And it will work.’

‘This is what you gave up Leah for?’ said Visenya, readjusting her cloak.

Adria’s smile left; she switched her staff to her other hand and began to walk away. ‘I did not give up my child - I gave her a better future than I would have given her.’ She turned and left, giving no time for a reply.

‘She knows how to make an entrance - and exit,’ said Lyndon, pushing himself off the pillar.

Visenya watched her leave, her head held high, long, dark hair swaying in echo of her hips. Each movement of her staff sent a glint of magic from the tip, and an aura hung around her. It quivered as she spoke, as she moved and breathed. It wasn’t pleasant - but was almost threatening.   

She is so unlike her daughter.

‘When do we leave?’ asked Lyndon, resting a hand on his hip.

Visenya looked between the men and back to the camp. It was almost midday, and the heat was rising. Visenya wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to ignore the pounding against her skull. It had lingered since she woke; a mixture of exhaustion, the bottle of mead she had drank and the wound on her cheek that still burned.

Lyndon still stared expectantly, awaiting an answer. Tyrael still stared at the city, awaiting nothing.

‘Today.’

‘You sure? You don’t look so good, Vis. The bags under your eyes are particularly impressive,’ said Lyndon, setting a hand on her shoulder.

Visenya laughed, but her smile dropped, wincing as she stretched the stitched wound.

‘Not to mention that beauty on your face,’ said Lyndon.

‘Belial could appear any time - we have to be ready, wounds and all,’ she said, trying to keep her cool front together; she was the Nephalem, afterall. They all looked to her, followed her, sought her guidance. She had to let them believe in her; for them as much as herself.

‘I’ll let the others know. Am I coming?’ he said, squeezing her shoulder.

‘Yes-’

‘As am I,’ said Tyrael as he turned away from the ledge and the city, and towards the other two.

‘Two hours?’ said Lyndon.

Visenya nodded. ‘Ask Kormac if he could prepare my shield. It took some damage yesterday,’ she asked as Lyndon walked away. His reply was a wave of his hand.

Visenya turned to Tyrael as he approached her. She pulled his cloak around her again,  even though the heat gripped her skin, sending small droplets down her neck.

‘He is right,’ he began, stopping a foot before her. ‘You deserve to rest, Visenya.’

‘I’ll rest when evil rests,’ she said, tilting back her head. He was almost a foot taller than her when she was unarmoured. Her feet were bare, now, covered in sand, comfortable against the warm ground. Tyrael was armoured; he almost always wore it, whether fighting or not. She had asked him once.

 

> _‘Why do you always wear your armour?’ she had blurted the morning they had left Tristram._

> _He had paused, silent for a while as he pondered her words. Visenya opened her mouth for a quick, short apology, but he smiled, and began to speak._

> _‘We - angels - wear our armour always, but mostly for status. It serves us in battle too of course, but it is a way to define each other.’ He stopped, touched El’druin and flexed his armoured hand. The rivets moved like silk, rippling across his hand like a second skin. Visenya watched, mesmerised, as he continued to talk. ‘We have no faces as angels, our bodies….although shaped like mortals, are… light.’_

> _His voice faltered. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the quiver of emotion that shook his words._

> _Visenya smiled. ‘It is a part of you. I understand that. I am sorry I made you remember.’_

> _‘You need not apologise, Nephalem. The memory of who I was as archangel is not something I should want to forget. I may no longer have my wings, but I am still Tyrael.’_

Tyrael laughed, readjusting the cloak that slipped off her shoulder. ‘You remind me of myself when I was younger.’

‘Not now?’

He pulled his hands back and stared beyond Visenya, to the camp, where a thin cloud of sand lingered. ‘Falling from heaven has changed me - reforming changed me. But for the better.’

‘I would have liked to have known young Tyrael,’ she said, trying to catch his gaze.

‘He...was not the best of me,’ he said. ‘I am glad I have met you now.’

‘Why?’ Visenya took a step closer; they were but an inch apart now. She tilted back her head, watching, waiting.

He avoided her eyes, glancing beyond her shoulders, to the floor, to her feet. But at last, he submitted. ‘Because -’ he faltered.

Visenya touched his cheek.

‘Because now, I am mortal,’ he said at last.

‘But you are still Tyrael.’

He held her hand that cupped his face and closed his eyes. He sighed, content. ‘But I would not feel your hand on my skin like I do now. With my wings, I would have had no face.’

‘You do not have to have a face for me to - to -’

Tyrael opened his eyes. Visenya brushed her thumb across his lips.

‘To what?’ he asked, his words no more than a whisper.

‘Visenya!’

She jumped, startled at the call of her name, like a cold dagger to her ears. Before she had time to find her words, to finish her sentence, Tyrael stepped back, breaking their connection.

‘Ah, my lady, there you are,’ came the thick, brusque accent of Kormac.

Visenya turned, crossing her arms beneath her chest. ‘What?’

‘I - uh - ‘ Kormac looked between the Nephalem and Tyrael, trying to understand what he interrupted. ‘Your shield is too damaged to be used. You’ll need another.’

‘Fine. Do you have a spare I could used?’ she asked, conscious of her curt tone.

‘I do, m’lday, it’ll be ready for when we leave.’

Tyrael walked past her, briefly look behind him as he spoke. ‘I’ll come find you when we are ready. I am just going to the city for an errand.’

She made to halt his retreat, but the curious eyes of Kormac stopped her. ‘Be - be careful.’

‘Always.’ And he left.

Visenya glanced to Kormac, her arms still crossed, defiant and rigid. ‘Well?’

‘Well?’

‘My shield, Kormac.’

‘Oh - yes. Of course. It’ll be ready in time for when you leave,’ he said, giving her a half, rigid nod. 

Visenya watched him leave, walking over the footprints Tyrael had left behind.


	6. Not Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Zoltun's orders, they leave to fetch the Soulstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very plot centric chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Visenya fastened her bracer, tucking the frayed leather strap beneath the buckle. Kormac let her finish before he fastened her spaulders. He was slow, but careful. Visenya shuffled her feet, anxious to leave. The longer they waited, the heavier her armour felt. Droplets of sweat trickled down her neck already. She went to move beneath the shelter of the canvas, but Kormac stopped her, holding her in place.

‘At least let me finish this, my lady,’ said Kormac.

Visenya sighed. ‘Fine.’

Adria approached, a drawstring bag suspended from one hand, her staff in the other. ‘He’d be best at your side,’ said Adria, holding out the bag.

Visenya stared at it and took a long, steadying breath. She was about to carry a dismembered head. That talked. She rubbed her eyes with a gloved hand. ‘Is there really no other way?’ she asked.

‘Not if you want the Soulstone.’ Visenya had expected the reply to be from Adria, but it came from the bag, still hanging from the witch’s hand.

‘If you’re coming with me, keep your mouth shut,’ said Visenya, snatching the bag from Adria. She tied it to her belt, roughly.

‘If you want the Soulstone, you’ll do exactly what I want.’

Visenya didn’t reply; her strength was waning, and she hadn’t yet picked up her shield.

‘Leah is going with you,’ said Adria, leaning casually on her staff.

Visenya pulled back her hair and fastened a thong around the short ponytail as Adria talked. She expected as much. Where they went, Leah would follow. She feared little, and her drive, her desire to follow in the steps of cain was insatiable.

You remind me of when I was young, Leah.

Visenya nodded to Adria and retreated under the canvas that was erected in the centre of camp; a communal refuge from the sun.

‘She’s trying to help,’ said Kormac, at Visenya’s heel.

She picked up her emergency dagger and touched the edge with her finger. A spot of red pooled at the tip. ‘Is she? Her timing is awfully convenient, she is rude, abrupt, and abandoned her child to wander Sanctuary.’

Kormac cleared his throat. ‘I am in no place to judge.’

‘Very few of us are.’ Visenya glanced to Tyrael as she spoke. He was sat with Lyndon, sharing an end of bread.

‘She’s quite a woman,’ said Lyndon, brushing off the crumbs in his lap.

‘What?’ said Tyrael absently, turning to face his companion.

‘Our esteemed Crusader. Our Nephalem.’ Lyndon spoke with a smile, resting an ankle on his knee.

Tyrael picked at the remainder of his bread, watching the crumbs fall to his feet. Bread. It was something still so new to him, but it was a staple of a mortal diet, and he would have to get used to it. It wasn’t that it didn’t taste good; everything tasted good. The first mouthful of porridge was exquisite; he thought he were back in heaven when he tasted a haunch of lamb. But eating took up time. Time they did not have; time that should be spent fighting, seeking, walking. Anything but eating.

He watched Visenya ready the last of her armour. She moved with such ease in it, like it was like a second skin to her, just like his was to him. The only time he didn’t wear it was to sleep and bathe, both of which still felt strange. Especially sleep.

Tyrael turned to the rogue, passing him the last of the bread. ‘She has taken on this burden with such ease; with unwavering strength,’ he paused as Lyndon took the bread. ‘But I cannot help but feel I have robbed her of a life of her choosing.’

‘She arrived in Tristram after you fell. She sought out the falling star, all on her own, Tyrael,’ said Lyndon. ‘Give her some credit. She’s a Crusader, out to seek the wrongs of the world and make them right. Or something.’

Tyrael nodded, clasping together his hands. ‘Her virtues...are admirable,’ he said, watching her push aside a shock of hair that slipped free from her tie. She met his gaze and they shared a smile.

‘She looks up to you. She seeks the Light. It is her purpose, the backbone of her faith. And you are,’ he paused, correcting himself, ‘well, were, the embodiment of that light.’

‘I still bear the soul of an angel, he said, watching her weave a small braid in a loose lock of hair. ‘And if anything, I look up to her. She reminds me, everyday, why I vouched for humanity, time and time again.’

‘What, don’t I remind you?’ he asked, laughing.

‘You remind me of many things. A few angels in heaven, actually,’ said Tyrael, standing from the crate he used as a seat as Visenya approached, shield poised..

‘Well, well. I’m being compared to an angel. Complement of the year, Tyrael.’

Tyrael looked back to Lyndon. ‘I never said they were good.’

Lyndon shrugged. ‘I never expected they were good angels.’

Visenya paused before them, tilting back her head to look up at Tyrael. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Are...you?’ he asked, motioning at the bag tied to her belt.

‘He’s a head in a bag. Tied to my waist. There’s little he can do,’ she said. ‘But thank you.’ She placed an armoured hand on his arm. He echoed the gesture.

‘Such confidence.’ Words hissed from the bag. Visenya started, touching the canvas. ‘Words can sting as much as a blade.’

‘I didn’t know it...talked,’ she said, rubbing her temple.

‘Let me carry it.’ Tyrael offered, but she just shook her head.

‘This is my burden; my trial,’ she said. ‘But you,’ she paused, glancing to Leah as she approached. ‘All of you, make it easier.’

‘This is touching and all, but we should go. Leah is practically bouncing at the gate,’ said Lyndon, waving his hand towards the girl.

Visenya took the lead; Tyrael a step behind.

***

‘Left!’ called Zoltun from the bag. ‘One more vial.’

‘I can count to two, thanks,’ said Visenya knocking down a skeleton at her right. It shattered against her shield, splinters peppering the sand.

It had been hours since they left. The sun was setting, but the heat remained. Lyndon complained about the sand in his boots and other places but Leah could barely shift the smile from her face. She had kept at Visenya’s heel, babbling excitingly about seeing creatures and places that Cain had talked about when she was young. She had even demonstrated her skills as a witch rather aptly. Visenya was impressed, but she always kept an eye on the girl. Eagerness can lead to recklessness; Visenya knew that path all too well.

Tyrael swung his sword with ease; battle suited him well. Enemies fell at the sight of El’druin, and Visenya felt the thrill to stand at his side - an angels side - and fight as an equal, empowering. It fuelled her steps, helping her charge through the battlefield with little desire for rest. Her aim was true, her swing fierce. Gone were her cares about the heat, about the constant swill of sand around them. She ended life; vanquishing the dark, with the vengeance of light.

Maybe my steps are still true. Maybe my purpose has not been lost.

Zoltun spoke, interrupting her thoughts as she stepped over a corpse. ‘You may be an almighty Nephalem - but you can still bleed.’

‘At least I have all my body parts,’ she said, rolling her shoulder. The shield felt strange against her arm still; she longed for her own.

Zoltun laughed, the mocking sound lingering in the air.

‘Can’t we knock him out to shut him up?’ said Lyndon, taking an arrow from his quiver.

‘He’s already dead. I don’t think there’s much else we can do,’ she said, lunging forward at a Fallen, tearing off it’s head with her flail.

Lyndon loosed an arrow. ‘I wish we could have shipped him back to camp with...what was his name?’

‘Shen,’ said Zoltun, just as Visenya opened her mouth.

Visenya saw a pack and charged forward, shield held high, the tip just below her eyes. Shen. The Emperor. Was there anyone else that wished to join their escapades, she thought as the pack of Fallen began to litter the ground at her feet. She just wanted to get the vials, bring Zoltun back and get this damned Soulstone. She didn’t want to find strange men stowed in barrels, nor listen to orders from a child Emperor.

‘Do you think you’re still worthy to carry the title Crusader?’ said Zoltun as she finished off the last of the Fallen.

‘Shut up,’ said Visenya, ascending a set of cracked steps.

‘I mean. You have not been doing much...Crusading, lately.’

‘What’s it to you?’

The head laughed. ‘It’s nothing to me. You’re nothing to me, Nephalem.’

‘I’ll remember this when you have your body back,’ said Visenya, wiping off a splatter of blood and sand that painted her face.

‘You need me. You need the Soulstone.’

‘Thank you for that wonderful insight,’ she said, turning a corner. Ahead she could see a glowing ball, suspended above a pedestal. It had to be the vial.

‘Your mentor would be so proud. Pushing aside the Crusade for a fools path, at the demand of a fallen angel.’

‘You dare-’

‘But I suspect you would do anything he asked. When was the last time you opened your legs for another?’ laughed Zoltun.

‘By Zakarum….shut up!’ Visenya stopped, her arms poised, steady. She went to sheathe her flail, to grab the bag, to throw it far, far away, to trample it with her shield. But she stopped, steeling herself, remembering the vow she took, remembering why she held the title of Crusader.

To vanquish the evil that permeated sanctuary. And she was. With Lyndon, with Leah; with Tyrael.

The fallen angel was at her side; the others simply stared.

‘Let me carry it,’ said Tyrael, sheathing El’druin.

She heard Zoltun whisper - or were the words in her head?

But for what price? To become his little Nephalem pet? To right the mistakes he made?

Visenya stared at Tyrael; she had no words. The honesty in his eyes settled her; but it was his smile that brought back her voice.

‘I would appreciate the gesture,’ she said, hooking her flail to her belt before untying the satchel.

Do you really think he sees you as Visenya? Hah. You are a tool. To be used.

She thrust the bag into Tyrael’s hands, trying to push out the words that echoed in her head. ‘Come on. The vial is up ahead.’

***  
They had the blood. Next: the body. Visenya tucked the vial next to the other that sat in her pouch. They clattered as she walked back to the group. They were covered in sand and blood. Lyndon talked with an exuberant Leah; Tyrael glanced at his new burden, that hung at his hip. Did he whisper to the angel like he had done to Visenya? Did he taunt him? Mock him too? Tyrael’s face remained impassive; he was so hard to read from afar.

As Visenya neared, Zoltun spoke, loud enough for all to hear. ‘Ahhhh, I can feel my life begin to return already.’

‘You’re missing one body,’ said Visenya, walking past, watching as a portal appeared at Leah’s side.

‘Dismembered, dead, but you can still conjure a portal?’ asked Visenya to the satchel at Tyrael’s hip.

‘I’m just full of surprises,’ said Zoltun.

Glancing at her group, she took the first step through the portal, hoping to be rid of the heat, the confines, the sand. And of course, she just stepped into more. The others followed a moment later, and with a crack, the portal closed.

‘Right. Which way?’

‘It’s right there, you fool,’ said Zoltun with a long drawl.

Visenya looked ahead to the sarcophagus, sheen with a thick coat of sand, smooth, undisturbed. ‘Well? What...do we need to do?’

Tyrael stepped forward, long confident strides creating steps in the sand. His armour sang as he walked, the pleasant clink of heaven’s metal carried by the wind. They were beneath ground, enclosed, the door a thousand steps away but there was a stiff wind inside. It swirled the sand, creating thin twisters, almost beautiful to watch. It whipped Visneya’s hair as Tyrael walked past and caught the edge of his cloak as he untied the bag, opened it and emptied the severed head atop the sarcophagus.

‘Will that do?’ asked Tyrael, dropping the canvas bag to the ground.

Leah approached the sarcophagus, flexing her fingers as she prepared for the ritual. She curved her fingers and began to move her arms in a rhythm, muttering words that only she could hear. Zoltun said nothing.

Visenya watched Tyrael pace; she saw the strain hunch his shoulders and line his brow. From afar, she couldn’t read him, but up close, she was beginning to understand him. The way his hand lingered by the hilt of El’druin when he was anxious, and the way he rubbed his shoulder, where his wings used to be.

‘You’re pacing,’ said Visenya.

Tyrael paused, his hand resting on a hunched shoulder. ‘Do you really think he’s going to stand by and let us take the Soulstone?’

‘I’m ready for a fight - and with him - I’d welcome one,’ said Visenya, watching Leah cast her ritual. Tendrils of purple snaked from her fingers, lighting the sullen cavern, catching the crystals of sand, casting a pleasant hue all around them. Sparks of blue, of red, of white jumped from her fingers towards the sarcophagus. The lid moved, shattering on the floor from the force of Leah’s power. She was formidable; the power within her resonated through the air, making Visenya’s skin prickle and make the blonde hairs on her body peak. Tyrael still touched his shoulder, rubbing slowly as he watched.

‘Almost...there,’ said Leah, her feet slipping along the sand, parting her legs as she fought against the unruly power.

‘Be careful,’ said Visenya, taking a step closer.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, her words broken.

With little warning, Leah’s magic swelled to a bubble, hovering over the open sarcophagus. It crackled in the air, like a thick, humid night of lightning. Visenya almost wished there was rain. She took a step back, hoisting her shield to the front. The head was gone; the body too. All that remained was the swell of magic, illuminating the cavern warms, making Visenya’s armour gleam like a beacon. With a crack, is dissipated, and all that remained was Zoltun Kulle.

Visenya stood ready, flail clutched, shield poised.

‘What a welcome,’ sneered Zoltun, stepping down from the sarcophagus with ease, flesh, blood, whole, with a staff in hand.

Visenya heard Lyndon stretch the string of his bow; Leah whispered quiet words of awe.

‘I thought you wanted the Soulstone?’ said Zoltun, taking slow steps forward. Visenya stood rigid, watching him approach, surveying his steps, the way he held his staff, the small, dark eyes that peered from one to the next. And he just walked past, held out a hand and summoned a portal. ‘Well?’

Visenya nodded. Lyndon lowered his bow and tucked away the arrow; Leah stepped in close to the scoundrel, keeping step with him as they approached the portal. Tyrael offered to go first, Visenya made sure she was the last. There was nothing new when they arrived; more sand, more caverns, more heat, and as she swung aside her shield, clanking against three bodies, more Fallen.

Zoltun fought with them as they followed him through the caverns. Visenya traversed the cracked steps, the uneven ground, covered in dust and sand and cobwebs; there were a scatter of dry, cracked bones all across the ground. Some human, some not. They crunched beneath Visenya’s feet as they pushed a path through the monsters. The closer they approached their destination, the harder they fought. The anger in their screams, in their swings, grew and grew. Visenya could see it in their eyes; black, empty, void of everything but rage. One of them caught her flail as she swung, it’s long, deformed hands clutching the metal spikes. Visenya turned, swiftly, catching it’s side with her shield. It didn’t let go; it didn’t relent. Several fingers broke off as she yanked back her flail. It just roared louder, angrier. It lunged; she dodged. She bashed her shoulder into it, knocking it back several feet. She had her opening. It swung it’s fingerless hands, but Visenya was too quick. She pulled back her flail and caught it’s face with the metal spikes, still decorated with it’s fingers. A crackling scream was it’s last goodbye.

Visenya heard more approach; but she was ready. As several arrows sang past her head, whipping close to her blonde hair, so was Lyndon.

‘Catch up, Vis! I must be at least twenty ahead of you!’ called Lyndon, his words accompanied with a laugh.

A wave of enemies approached, untouched by his arrows. Vis cried out, calling out to Akarat, pulling out from within her the strength of light. A slew of bright, white blots cascaded from her flail and shield, piercing the bodies of the Fallen. They exploded into dust.

‘Think we’re even now!’ cried Visenya, catching her breath as she regained her strength. There was little left of the enemy now, just small stragglers that nipped at their ankles. Leah cast magic from her fingertips, extinguishing their lives before they had a chance to scratch.

‘If you’re all quite done, said Zoltun, motioning ahead. ‘Beyond that door is what you seek.’

Visenya wiped her brow as she hooked her flail. ‘Please tell me you still don’t trust him,’ said Visenya as she joined Tyrael’s stride.

‘I never did.’

‘Good.’

Zoltun walked - or as Visenya noticed when she looked closer - glided with ease. No trouble weighed his shoulders, and the corners of his mouth were turned to a smile. Her steps, however, felt heavy. The air grew thick; she could almost feel it cloying at her skin. They entered a circular area, with walls that reached far beyond sight. Dim torches flickered as they entered, disturbed by the unexplained breeze. It sang as it whipped past Visenya, rippling the metal chains of her flail, making it clink against her armour. But the song remained; whispers, words she could barely understand. As Tyrael joined her side, she turned to speak.

‘Can you hear that?’ she asked, noticing El’druin gleam from his touch.

‘Louder than most,’ he said, staring at their prize; the Soulstone.

Zoltun hovered by the stone, his eyes matched it’s blackness, his smile never leaving. ‘Well?’ he said.

Leah glanced to Visenya, her fingers alight with magic. Lyndon still walked with bow and arrow in hand, ready to fire at a breath.

‘You are just going to let us… take it?’ said Leah.

Zoltun laughed. ‘You can try.’

Visenya groaned, gripped her flail and held high her shield. ‘It was so obvious, I am almost bored.’

Tyrael sighed. ‘He’s highly outnumbered - I do not know what he expects.’

‘Evil doesn’t always make sense,’ she said, jumping aside as a dart of sand pierced the air before her and aimed for her chest. The edge of her shield caught it’s tail, and seven others. She held her shield steady and quickly surveyed their surroundings. Leah stood behind a shield of her own making; it deflected rays of magic that soared from Zoltun’s staff. It gave her time to fire off some magic of her own. Zoltun managed to dodge or destroy most of their efforts to attack, but there was far too much for one to handle.

Lyndon rolled to the side, leaped back onto his feet and cast off another volley of arrows. One in three hit; he swore loudly. Not enough.

Leah’s shield was down; Visenya ran to the front, telling the girl to stand at her back. ‘You alright?’ asked Visenya as she cast forward a swathe of blinding light.

‘Fine!’ said Leah. She reached out from either side of Visenya and backed up her attacks with her own. Tyrael swung El’druin across Zoltun’s body; the wizard cried out in anguish. He knocked back the fallen angel with a shockwave that erupted from his staff. Tyrael recovered quickly and sunk El’druin into the ground at his feet, spears of light flew from the blade and sank into Zoltun. His anguish turned into screams of fury.

‘The stone is mine!’ he cried, twirling the staff before his chest. Magic rained from the sky, it peppered the sand, the walls, the group. Visenya used her shield for cover, pulling Leah roughly to her side. They waited out the storm of magic; they were blue, like icicles, with tips as sharp as the edge of a blade. Tyrael was shielded by the essence of El’druin - but Lyndon, he still stood, firing arrow after arrow towards Zoltun. The blue spikes pierced his skin, but he barely seemed to care. They stuck out at odd angles from his arms and shoulders; he paused. Uncorking a bottle with his teeth he necked the potion, glanced to Visenya, nodded, and began to fire again.

‘Don’t be reckless, Lyndon!’ cried Visenya as she advanced to Zoltun, her shield decorated with blue. Leah was at her back again, providing covering fire as she closed the gap between her and Zoltun. Tyrael was at Lyndon’s side, but eh scoundrel shooed him away.

‘I’ve had much worse,’ he called to Visenya and Tyrael. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know when I want saved by my knights, thank you.’

Tyrael laughed; Visenya echoed.

Zoltun hurled a ball of energy towards Visenya. She made to dodge, but at the last second she remembered the girl at her back. She stood tall and strong, her shield taking the impact for them both. She staggered, her feet sliding across the sandy floor from the force of his magic.

‘Tyrael!’ she cried, nodding to Zoltun’s side, but he was already there, El’druin poised. He brought down the blade and sunk it deep into Zoltun’s chest, shattering his newly formed ribs.

The wizard screamed, took his staff and pushed back the angel with a shockwave. He fell, his blade slipping from his grasp.

Visenya used this as her opening. Calling to Leah and Lyndon for back up, she met the weakened body of Zoltun with her shield. A hard crack sounded in the air as body met shield. She brought up her flail, sinking the heavy metal heads into the wizard. Leah pelted him with magic, Lyndon with the last of his arrows.

Zoltun went to slam his staff into the ground for his final assault, but Visenya curled her arm high and whipped her flail towards the staff, cutting it clean in two.

‘Tyrael - now!’

The angel, back on his feet, charged towards the wizard, still pressed hard against Visenya’s shield. She stepped back on Tyrael’s word and he took a final swing of El’druin, and sank the blade deep into his chest. Tyrael pulled back, the lifeless body of Zoltun Kulle met the sandy floor with a thud.

‘Dead?’ asked Leah, appearing at Visenya’s side.

‘Dead.’ Visenya clipped her flail back to her belt and glanced to Lyndon and Tyrael. ‘Everyone good?’

‘Been better,’ rasped Lyndon, clutching a bleeding arm.

‘Fine,’ muttered Tyrael, reaching out to touch the Soulstone. ‘We should leave. Now.’

Leah finished tying a scrap of her shirt around Lyndon’s arm before she summoned forth the last of her magic to conjure a portal. She returned to Lyndon’s side, helping him through the portal.

Visenya and Tyrael remained, accompanied by the twice dead Zoltun and the Soulstone.

‘It still talks,’ she said, joining his side. She reached out to touch it, but Tyrael stopped her, taking his hand into his own.

‘Don’t - it calls to the demon blood inside you.’

Visenya looked from the stone to Tyrael; it whispered, it laughed. ‘I can handle it,' she said, pulling back her hand.

'I don't want you to have to,' he said, taking hold of the stone. It seared through his gauntlets, it's essence grating against his skin. It's song grew louder; words of mocking, words that taunted. 'I started this. It is more my burden than anyones.'

'You cannot do it alone,' said Visenya, watching him cradle the stone at his chest. He was still impassive, unreadable. 

He lifted a hand and pushed back her thin braid. 'I am not.'

She leaned into his touch, feeling the weight of her armour dig into her shoulders. 'Let's go home.'

'I do not have a home any more,' he said as she turned away to the portal, the bluey hue illuminating her skin.

'You are all my home, now. Leah, Lyndon, Kormac....,' she paused. 'You.' Visenya held out her hand. 'It's been a long day. Let us leave this place.'

Tyrael took her hand and followed her home.


	7. The Lord of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon returning to camp, they find the city under siege from Belial and his servants. It is up to Visenya and Tyrael to end Belial's reign over Caldeum.

As Visenya stepped through the portal and into camp, a hand gripped her wrist, and a voice called her name, and another, and another. Screams were filling the air, shouts, orders, clangs of metal and the song of magic too. Tyrael waved the portal closed and stepped in close to Visenya, trying to discern what was happening through the chaos that ran through the camp and in the city down below.

‘Visenya - the palace,’ said Eirena, her trembling hand covered in blood.

‘By Zakarum - what -’

‘Belial,’ seethed Tyrael as he pushed through the throng of people, both friend and foe.

‘Is everyone accounted for?’ she asked Eirena as she watched Tyrael leave. He stopped just as one of Belial’s slithering servants appeared at the top of the steps. He was swiftly severed in two by El’druin, the thick black droplets of it’s blood staining the ground.

Eirena pulled Visenya with her, nodding towards where Tyrael had left. ‘We are fine. Leah is with the injured - Lyndon included. Kormac is on the front lines with the guards and Adria can handle herself.’ She paused and slammed her staff onto the ground, sending out a ripple of magic from her feet. It toppled a small group of injured enemies, giving Kormac and his companions their opening to finish. ‘Now go! You must go with Tyrael. There is no-one else who can do this but you,’ said Eirena, setting a hand kindly on Visenya’s shoulder.

‘I have been hearing that a lot, lately,’ said Visenya, wearily. She smiled at Eirena before clutching her flail and raising her shield. ‘Stay safe - protect the camp for our return.’

‘May the light guide you,’ said Eirena as she twirled her staff, a swathe of blue magic curling around her arm.

‘And you,’ said Visenya, breathless. She knocked back a demon with her shield, it’s broken body painting the metal black and red. Tyrael had left a mostly clear path for her to follow. She picked off a few enemies left behind, some limbless, some almost lifeless. Visenya could hear Tyrael’s cries up ahead; but he wasn’t slowing down.

‘Tyrael!’ she called, ‘Wait!’ She jumped over a line of dead demons, oozing treacle thick blood. She landed unsteadily on her feet, cursing. Pressing the bottom of her shield into the ground, she steadied herself and continued on.

Sweat smothered her skin, it dripped down her neck, it dampened her hair and fell into her eyes. She blinked away the sweat, calling out Tyrael’s name once more. She was close; the glow of El’druin was near and the presence of his light was growing strong.

Visenya ran past the city guards, fighting off Belial’s servants; they were winning, she thought. She hoped. Screams still filled the air, and as she descended the last of the steps, a flurry of civilians ran past. A mother held a child close to her chest, the father followed close behind. Visenya ushered them on, making sure nothing tailed them. She caught the eye of a flying demon, just above.

‘Shit.’ Visenya threw down her shield and flail and drew the dagger from her boot in one swift motion. She discarded the sheath and gripped it by the blade. The demon was small; but it was enough to kill the child and mother. Visenya watched, waited, her hand poised and ready. The blade scratched at the chain mail of her gauntlet as she drew back her hand once, twice, and on the third draw, she let go of the dagger and watched as it soared through the sky like a bullet and pierce the flying demon in the chest. A shriek, cut with a gurgle met her ears at it tried to fight it’s death. Visenya watched as it fell from the sky, it’s wings flapping erratically as it fought to survive. But the dagger, sunk deep within it’s chest, the black acidic blood dripping from the wound, won. It met the sandy ground with a thud, sending a cloud of dust in memory of it’s wings.

Visenya picked up her shield and flail, searching the disarray for Tyrael. The path he had cleared was quickly overrun, and she could feel his presence waning. But there was only one place they had to be; the palace. Visenya looked to her right; the guards were stronger than the enemy; and to her left; they were helping civilians escape. She took the opportunity, and ran.

Her feet felt heavy and unsteady, and still the sweat coated her skin. She whispered a prayer, chanting words to Zakarum to fuel her waning strength. ‘Tyraell!’ she called. He didn’t reply. She kept running, and running. The city was a blur, she could no longer tell friend from foe, and all she could see was the path before her to the palace. Pools of blood, black and red, decorated the ground, skin, bone, limbs, heads. She was sure she saw more dead enemy than friend - or it was hope that blinded her.

Visenya hit the palace door with a shoulder, pushing it open wide. She felt Tyrael’s presence grow stronger with each step; but it came alongside the overwhelming presence of hell. Of Belial.

All through the city his minions ran rampant, unforgiving, serving their master of lies blindly. But inside here, sat the master himself, awaiting Visenya’s arrival. But why was he not with his minions, in the city, causing havoc like the rest? No. This is what he wanted. Visenya. The Nephalem. All for himself.

She gripped her flail tighter as she ran along the empty corridor, void of friend and foe. ‘Tyrael!’ she called again. This time, there was a reply.

‘I’m here,’ he said evenly as he pulled El’druin from the chest of a serpent, his foot pressing down hard on the gaping wound.

‘You’re impatient for an angel,’ said Visenya, joining his side.

‘Belial took our distraction with Zoltun to his advantage. We must look like fools,’ said Tyrael, kicking aside the bleeding corpse of his victim.

‘Then let us show him otherwise,’ said Visenya, hoisting her shield close to her chest. She watched, she waited. Screams, shouts, the clang of metal surrounded them like a staccato choir, void of melody.

Tyrael nodded, El’druin glowing in his hand. ‘Do you have the stone with you?’

‘Can you not hear it?’ she asked, glancing to the throne room doors where she knew he waited for her.

‘Belial’s presence overwhelms almost everything for me,’ he said wiping away a sheen of dirt and sweat from his forehead.

‘Let’s extinguish it - together,’ said Visenya, motioning towards the throne room.

Tyrael rolled his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he eased the taut muscle.

‘How fares battle without your wings?’ she asked, taking the lead.

‘It is easier with you at my side.’

Visenya paused, opened her mouth to speak, but she could not find the words. The corner of her mouth twitched to a smile, but a scream outside the palace pulled her back into the fray. She took the lead once more and marched towards the throne room, pushing the door open with her shoulder, flail poised and ready.

As they stepped inside, all that met them was silence. It was thick and uncomfortable, accompanied by the crushing weight of Belial’s presence. But all they could see, was the Emeperor.

‘Being mortal is going to take the fun out of killing you, Tyrael,’ said the Emperor, said Belial.

Visenya said a prayer to Zakarum beneath her breath and her shield glowed, casting a decadent light over her and Tyrael. ‘There will be little you can do when I banish you within the Soulstone,’ said Visenya, feeling the stone vibrate at her hip, it’s whispers growing loud and frantic.

‘You think a stone can defeat us? You think it can keep us at bay?’ said Belial with the voice of the Emperor.

‘Does arrogance always come in tandem with evil?’ said Visenya, twirling her flail with her words.

‘Stupidity seems rife with mortals,’ said Belial. His voice shifted, the high pitch of the child Emperor’s voice changing to a deeper, metallic twang of the demon. ‘Especially those recently turned mortal,’ he said, glancing to Tyrael.

‘I may be without my wings, but I am still the angel you know, Belial.’

‘We shall see,’ he mocked, the thick drawl of the demon breaking through.

‘Enough!’ cried Visenya, slamming the tip of her shield into the floor. It shook from the force, rippling through their bodies. ‘You wanted to face me; here I am.’

‘I didn’t want company,’ he said, motioning to Tyrael. The ground trembled around the angel. Dark swirls tore through the marbled stone, surrounding Tyrael’s feet. The earth cracked, accompanied with thick hissing. Black smoke snaked around the angel, thin tendrils that swirled in the air, rapidly, and formed the slithering, thing bodies of Belial’s servants; the serpents. Tyrael was surrounded by five of them, morphed from the blackness of hell and the will of the demon before them, but he did not falter. He cast the tip of El’druin into the ground at his feet; it surrounded himself with a protective bubble, giving him the precious few moments to gather his composure and strength. Visenya moved towards Tyrael at once to help, but he cried out to her.

‘No! That is what he wants. I will be fine - you must defeat Belial, Visenya. It is your birthright.’

She hesitated, watching the angel shield himself with El’druin’s might. He was surrounded; but she knew he could handle them. There were things he had handled that Visenya could not even fathom; there were millenia behind him, countless of bodies that had fell before his feet.

‘Visenya,’ he cried again. He met her gaze and smiled. It was small, it was brief, but it was enough.

‘Stay alive,’ she called back, turning back to her foe. He was shielded by a swathe of black cloud; the same that had slithered from beneath Tyrael’s feet and formed the serpent’s of Belial.

‘I didn’t fall from Heaven to die to a lesser Lord of Hell,’ he mocked, breaking the shield of El’druin with a cry. It exploded in fury, knocking back the serpents several feet in the air.

Visenya held up her shield, taking a step back as she narrowly avoided the flailing arms of one that landed at her side. It ignored her; it’s eyes were on Tyrael only. ‘Don’t piss it off when I’m just about to fight it.’

Tyrael laughed, just as he brought down El’druin onto the chest of a serpent, it’s treacle black blood littering the sky. ‘I cannot make it too easy for you now.’

Visenya turned back to Belial, where the black veil began to disperse.

‘Enough!’ he roared, all trace of the young Emperor's voice - and body - gone. ‘Azmodan knows of the Soulstone already and prepares.’

‘Already expecting your impending death?’ said Visenya, twirling her flail.

Belial roared, sending a shudder through the earth. Visenya struggled to keep her balance as the demon soared through the air and stopped, paces away from her.

He stood at the least, twelve foot. He held a similar shape to his servants, serpentine, elongated and tall. His scales were blue, speckled with a deep hue of purple. Visenya was sure his visage was far too exquisite and splendid for a demon; but he was the Lord of Lies. The Lord of False, of Insincerity. She guessed it was only fitting that his appearance did not ‘fit’.

A great arc of scales hung from his head in echo of hair, it moved independently like an arm, and as Visenya thrust forward her shield, just in time, she noticed at the very tip there was a nasty, sharp spike, long and sharp enough to decapitate her head. She called out another prayer to Zakarum and felt the light course through her body and through her flail. She swung it above her head and caught Belial’s arm just as he swung it towards Visenya in a wide, menacing arc. His fingers were armed with blades, and they caught the edge of her shield, scratching lines into the golden metal.

Visenya took this moment to thrust her shield and her body forward, staggering Belial. He screeched, incensed at her brazen attempt to simply push him over.

‘Nephalem. Abominations. Neither Light nor Dark - this world does not belong to you. It belongs to me.’ Belial cast out his hands in tandem and a fel green fire burst from his palms, alighting the throne room with it’s sickly green glow. Visenya crouched down behind her shield as the slew of fire surrounded her.

‘Tyrael!’ she cried. ‘Shield yourself!’

The angel looked to the Nephalem and heeded her words, sending the tip of El’druin into the ground at his feet once more. It’s shield was weaker this time, but it sufficed, shielding him from the fel green fire as it passed over them both. The servants of Belial, of which four remained, were unscathed by it’s flame.

‘Even if you defeat me, Nephalem, Azmodan will scour these lands and this world with his armies of hell,’ roared Belial as he swung at Visenya, again and again. She stepped to the side, lifting her shield to each swing. The force of each hit shook the metal and vibrated through her body, shaking right through to her bones, but still, she stood tall, she stood defiant and strong. She was Visenya, she was Crusader, she was Nephalem. And this was not her end; this would not defeat her.

Whispered words to Zakarum passed her lips as she fought, the light of her prayer alighting her shield and flail, like a beacon of her faith and of her fury. With a wide, strong swing she sunk her flail into Belial’s right arm and took it clean off his shoulder, the thick, black demon blood showered the air. Visenya staggered with the force, but she quickly regained her composure, taking a step, two, three back as Belial screamed in pain at his missing appendage. She glanced to Tyrael. Two servants remained.

‘Nephalem,’ roared Belial, ‘you will know my fury!’

Visenya braced herself, breathless, for what was to come. He waved the one arm that remained and she watched as the fel fire began to grow once more, just as before. But instead of surrounding his palm, it began to cover his arm, his shoulder, his entire body. It grew and grew, and she could feel the intensity of it’s heat tear at her skin already. She wiped her brow, filthy with sweat and blood and sand and fear.

‘Tyrael,’ she said, slowly walking to his side as he cut down one of the two remaining servants.

Belial cackled as the fel fire began to grow, accumulating in a ball before his chest.

‘Tyrael - shield!’

‘I can’t - El’druin is weakened-’

‘Shit-’ Visenya ran towards the angel, her shield held high. She tried to hook her flail onto her belt but it slipped and fell to the ground. ‘Zakarum’s breath - no!’ There was no time to return, it was either the flail or Tyrael. There was no question. She arrived at the angels side, breathless, and grabbed him tightly against her chest as she crouched behind her shield as the ball of fel fire hurtled towards them both. The last remaining servant of Belial was disintegrated from the fire this time, the intensity of it congealing it’s flesh and thick, black blood.

Zakarum’s light penetrated her shield, lighting the golden metal and helping it withstand the demon fire that hit it with the full fury of Belial. She felt the shield shudder and heard several cracks creep through the metal as they huddled tightly behind it’s protection. Belial’s screams of anguish and fury resonated off the walls; he was almost fully spent. But so were they.

Tyrael’s arms were tightly wrapped around Visenya’s armoured chest, his fingers hooking the rivets of her pauldrons and the tips of her blonde, messy hair. Visenya’s arm that held the shield ached; it trembled from the force of the fel fire. Her other held Tyrael as close as she could, her armoured hand sinking into his cloak. Their foreheads met; their breathing rapid and shallow.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, her lips brushing against his nose.

‘You saved my life,’ he said, cupping her cheek with his hand.

‘You would have done the same,’ she said, breathless.

‘You cannot hide forever, Nephalem,’ cried Belial, his voice breaking.

Visenya swore, reaching for her flail. ‘I dropped my flail - I can only imagine it was decimated by the fire-’

‘Take El’druin.’

‘What?’

‘You are more than worthy to wield my blade, Visenya. Give Belial the justice he deserves.’ Tyrael held out El’druin towards Visenya; it glowed, and she was sure it sang with the voice of heaven.

She hesitated, her hand hovering by the hilt.

‘You risked your life for mine,’ repeated Tyrael, gently placing her hand on the hilt. ‘Finish it. Finish him.’

As Visenya took El’druin, she felt invigorated, like the strength of Zakarum, like the strength of Heaven itself soared through her blood. The blade responded to her touch, shimmering just as bright as when Tyrael wielded the blade, but instead of the bluey hue it cast, it shone golden, just like the light of Zakarum.

She touched Tyrael’s cheek with her other hand and held his gaze for a moment before slowly rising to her feet, El’druin in hand. Tyrael held her shield, still crouched on the floor.

‘Ahhh, you just like to make it easy for me, do you not, Nephalem,’ said Belial, his voice wavering, cracking on his last words.

‘To make your death easy for you? I suppose,’ she said, slowly walking towards the demon.

Belial glanced to the blade in her hand; to El’druin. He laughed and raised his remaining arm and cast it down upon Visenya. But she parried it with El’druin and pushed him back, the song of heaven resonating from it’s blade. She took a step forward and swung the blade at his chest, catching the bright purple flesh with the edge. It was the smoothest blade she had ever held; it was as if she sliced air when blade met demon. A spray of blood covered Visenya and a cry of pain accompanied the swing.

Belial swung at the Nephalem in one last desperate attempt, but Visenya found renewed strength with El’druin and charged forward, blade held high. She said a final prayer to Zakarum and swung the sword of Justice with all her might and watched as the blade sank into the side of the demon and pierced it’s heart. The demon screeched, it gurgled, the blood filling it’s throat as it died by the Nephalem’s hand. Visenya drew back El’druin swiftly, only to push it forward once again to pierce right through the demon’s chest. The life that remained in Belial extinguished as El’druin pierced it’s chest. Visenya watched as it collapsed before her, the broken, bloodied, shattered body of the demon fell, dead, by her hand.

‘The stone, Visenya!’ called Tyrael.

The bag at her hip vibrated, it trembled, desperate to be freed. As she opened it and took it out, it suspended itself in the air before her, and the whispers ceased. From Belial’s dead body she watched as his soul was torn from the skin in tendrils and was pulled into the black stone, still suspended before her, still void of whispers, of words, of noise. And then there was nothing. The stone, still before her in the air, had trapped the soul of Belial, for as long as it was intact. It was over. It was done.

El’druin shimmered at her side, it’s light fuelling the last of her strength.

‘We did it,’ she said, closing her eyes, her knees trembling from exhaustion.

Tyrael joined her and slid an arm around her waist. She leant against him at once, feeling the weight of her armour almost pull her to the floor. ‘You did this, Visenya. You are our strength and our future,’ he said as she turned and buried herself into his chest. She still gripped El’druin with one hand, but the other clung to his back.

‘But I cannot do it alone,’ she said, wearily. ‘I do not want to do it alone.’

‘You will never be alone,’ said Tyrael, kissing the top of her head. ‘Let us return and tell the good news.’

Visenya tightened her grip on his back. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered against his chest. ‘Not yet.’

They stood, wordless, still, bathed in the golden light of El’druin.


End file.
